Page 82 of Hometown Touchdown
He grins against my temple. “Cam has food. You’re gorgeous, but you don’t make breakfast tacos.”
“You don’t know that. I could have secret taco skills.”
He pulls back, raising a brow. “If you did, I’d propose on the spot.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I microwave nachos.”
We head out of the bathroom together, still tangled up in flirty glances and easy smiles. Knox tugs on a sweater and jeans, then whistles once. Priscilla trots into the room from her spot curled up in the hallway, tail wagging like she’s already halfway to excited.
“Hey, Pres,” he says, crouching to scratch behind her ears. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”
I stand against the counter as he scoops kibble into her bowl and lets her out into the small backyard through the sliding door. It’s such a simple act—muscle memory and quiet care—but it makes my chest squeeze. Seeing him like this, just a man and his dog in the morning, it’s the kind of moment that makes you feel all warm inside.
Priscilla gives a few satisfied tail wags when he lets her back inside, then flops dramatically onto the rug like she’s alreadyexhausted from the effort. Knox ruffles her ears on the way to the door, grabbing his keys off the counter.
He turns to me, lips quirking. “You gonna walk me out?”
“Only if you behave.”
“I make no promises.”
I follow him out, dragging the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over my hands like some lovesick teenager. We cross the few feet of driveway between our doors, and he stops just before his truck, turning to face me.
“I’ll see you tonight?”
I nod. “I’ll be ready.”
His gaze drags down my legs—bare, thanks to my sleep shorts and an entire lack of shame—and his voice drops a notch. “Don’t wear anything you don’t want ruined.”
I lift a brow. “Should I be worried?”
He grins, cocky and entirely too hot for a man standing in a driveway at ten in the morning. “You should be ready.”
I open my front door and glance back just in time to see him climb into his truck, give a quick wave, and disappear down the road.
As soon as it clicks shut behind me, I flop face-first onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.
If tonight doesn’t end with me finally, blissfully, biblically horizontal with Knox Dalton, I might combust from sheer sexual tension.
Two hours later, I’m still in one of Knox’s old T-shirts, sipping lukewarm coffee on my couch, when there’s a knock at the door.
I frown, shuffle over, open it to find a delivery guy with a sleek navy box in his hands.
“Delivery for Brynn Marlow,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mutter, confused but intrigued, and take it inside.
It’s heavier than I expected. Expensive-feeling. I carry it to the coffee table, sit down on the couch, and carefully lift the lid.
The first thing I see is navy blue silk. Deep, rich, impossibly elegant. I tug it out gently and let it unfurl—a floor-length evening gown with a thigh-high slit and the kind of neckline that would make my mother clutch her pearls. It’s stunning. I mean,stun-ning.
The shoes are next—silver heels, strappy and delicate, like they were plucked from a fashion shoot I definitely don’t belong in. Nestled on top of the tissue paper is a handwritten note in Knox’s unmistakably blocky handwriting.
Will you go to homecoming with me? My place at 7. No one else I’d rather show off. Dress to impress.
Also: underneath, less is more.
—K
